Diary of Terror A Little Girl's Story
by Salty Q
Summary: This is the little girl's perspective during the time she is possessed in "No Rest For the Wicked", written from her point of view. I couldn't help but write it, even though the idea is disturbing. Please review!


**Author's Note:** Hey people. This came to me last night as I was actually writing a different fanfic that included Lilith. It hit me that every little girl she possesses must be unbelievably terrified. The idea of this disturbed me greatly. . . .so I had to write about it. Also, remember it is meant to be told by a young girl, so the dialect is that of a young person. Please, please review. This was a little outside of the box for me. : )

**Diary of Terror: A Little Girl's Story**

I'm so tired. I had such a fun day! I played with all my friends at school—even the ones I was mad at yesterday. Mommy said that's what you're supposed to do after you are mad at someone. Play with them and it makes it better. She was right—it did!

Sleep is good for me, so I keep trying to sleep, but I feel wrong. Well, not wrong, but I feel like I shouldn't be here. I feel like something bad might happen. I've felt like this before. One time I even told Daddy to come in and check my closet, but there was nothing there. He told me when I feel like this, I just need to tell myself that I'm okay. So I tell myself I'm okay. It doesn't work real good, but I think I can sleep anyway.

My eyes should be shut, but now I see a shadow to my—let's see, use the L-shape on the _left_ hand—it's to my left. I don't like it, but it's too scary to scream. I don't want it to see me. If I scream it might see me.

Oh. It knows I'm here. I still can't scream. Why won't I scream? It won't let me. It can tell. I was gonna tell on it and it knows. It's moving towards me now and I'm really scared, but there's nowhere to go. Besides, I'm supposed to be in bed. I'm not supposed to leave my room after bedtime. I did it two nights ago and I got spanked. I don't like getting spanked.

It moves until it's right in front of me. I want to touch it, but I'm still scared—just a little too scared to reach for it. Then it moves towards me and it's in my face. It's all over my face—it's coming into my face! Ew! I don't like it! I want it out—get back out! Now I know I need to run, but I can't. I can't run. I can't move. Why can't I feel myself? I need to tell on it. It's been bad.

I'm going to cry. I want to feel like I feel when I cry, but it won't let me. It's being mean. Why is it being so mean? I need to tell on it. Mommy will tell it that it's being naughty and make it say that it's sorry. That's what I have to do when I'm naughty.

I'm still scared, but I really am tired. Sleeping is what I was supposed to be doing. Maybe it's okay. Maybe I'm already sleeping. One time I had a really bad dream and I thought it was real. It wasn't. Maybe it's like that now. I'm going to just go to bed and it will be okay—it will be _normal_—when I wake up. I'll be a good girl for the rest of tonight and if I have to, I'll tell Mommy about the naughty shadow.

_**O O O O O**_

I've been scared. I've been really scared. Everything hasn't been like it was supposed to be. I haven't been going to school for a long time. I was supposed to go to school. I'm almost sure I was supposed to go.

And my body hurts. I don't think it's supposed to feel like this. I heard Mommy talk about how she hurts when she stands up after she plays on the ground—but I never felt like that. But sometimes now I think I do. Sometimes I feel like someone took me to the park for too long. I don't think I'm supposed to feel like that. All my parts hurt. It's not like getting an owie—it's a big hurt. I don't think it's okay at all. I'm afraid that I won't be able to stay if it keeps hurting like this, but I'm afraid of where I will go if I can't stay.

I can't control anything that my hands do. My hands are bad. I don't like them. They are hurting people. Someone sometimes tells me that it's all my fault. I think it's a girl—it's in my head, though. I don't know why it's in my head. It hurts my head sometimes. I don't like it. I don't want it. I want to go home, even though I know I am home. I want to _really_ go home. I don't like it here—inside her—inside me. It's not mine now and I only get more scared every day.

There's blood on me. I don't know what it is until she tells them that Freckles was being mean. Freckles was my puppy. Freckles was my buddy. I don't like what she does, but I can't be my body—I can't use it. I need to cry about Freckles. Mommy says that crying makes you feel better because every tear is part of the bad coming out. But she won't let me cry right now. Sometimes she lets me cry a little, but only when no can see us. But when she lets me, I feel like she only does it because she wants to see me cry, so I try not to cry at all anymore—not even inside. Her voice is a lot like mine, but it only teases me. You aren't supposed to tease people—it's not nice. After she told them about Freckles, she said to me, "Bad puppies should be punished." Freckles wasn't bad at all. He was my friend.

I look down at my dress and I'm sad again. It was one of my favorite dresses. I wore it to church once and Father Hautesy told me I was really pretty that day. And my hands look icky—really icky. I want to wash them, but every time I start to feel like I'm going to go to the sink, nothing moves. Then I remember I can't, and it all starts all over.

I don't like it. I'm so scared that sometimes I think I might pee if my body was mine. But it's not mine. She took it.

_**O O O O O**_

I think she's going to do it again. She's going to hurt one of them.

My grandpa is really scared too. The shadow inside me is really mad at him and I'm really scared because I know what she does when she's mad. She did a very bad thing to the babysitter. I'm really trying now—trying to hit her, even though Mommy says hitting is bad. I can feel her getting really mad at Mommy and Grandpa. They don't know that I can't talk to them. It hurts me in my heart because they think I'm hurting them. I'm not hurting them. It's not me. I don't think it's me. I hope it's not me.

She's going to hurt him. She knows he was trying to get away. I wish they could all get away. Maybe if they all got away I wouldn't have to be scared about them. I wouldn't have to try to stop her. Maybe I could just play with her. That's what you do when you are mad at someone. If I play with her I can fix it.

My hand goes forward and that really scares me, because I've seen her—me—do that before. Please, no! Not grandpa! He's my favorite—he's my favorite grown up. (I love Mommy and Daddy, of course, but Grandpa isn't like them, and that's okay, Mommy says—he's a different kind of favorite.)

As my hand moves really fast and she closes my fist meanly, I know what is happening and I want to cry. I want to cry so hard that I don't understand how I can't feel tears. I want tears!

Grandpa is dead. I can tell. I think I'm not supposed to know, but I saw a movie where someone looked just him—I saw a look just like that. And that person was dead, because his eyes were open, but he couldn't see. If you aren't blind, open eyes that can't see means you are dead.

I want to feel my face move because I want so badly to cry. I don't know what else to do. I'm supposed to cry and someone is supposed to tell me that I'm going to be okay. But I can't cry, so no one ever comes. No one ever helps. I wish I could send her away. If I could cry, I would cry forever. I'm so scared. I'm so, so scared.

_**O O O O O**_

She's doing it again. She's going to kill them too. I don't know what to do. I know I'm not supposed to know what to do. I'm a little girl. Mommy wouldn't want me to know what to do, but I wish someone had taught me about this monster. When I talked about monsters, they told me that there wasn't any. They told me that I was just being silly. I made them check the closet, but I thought they were right.

But it's a real monster—somehow I know it's the worst monster—but nobody told me what to do. I know how to dial 911. I know how to go to the neighbor's for help. I know how stay low and go during a fire. I want to stomp my feet. No one told me about this! The grown ups were supposed to tell me what to do! They must know of this because they know everything. They just didn't tell me. Mommy and Daddy should have told me. I could have saved us. I could have saved Freckles and Grandpa.

Mommy and I are going up to bed. For what seems like the dozenth time, I want to push her away, but her—the one within me—she holds Mommy's hand like it's _her_ Mommy and takes her upstairs to _my_ room. I really don't like her.

She wants Mommy to read her a story—the same story we've read for the last week. I hate it! I only like it when we read it with the flashlight. Mommy knows that, but she won't let Mommy use the flashlight. I'm so tired and I'm so scared. I really just want to cry, but I know that nobody will hear it.

The story goes on and on. At some point I let myself rest. It's okay to rest. Mommy even said that when I was really sad or mad, it's okay to rest. She taught me that even if it's really bad, it's okay to rest because that that helps you be strong. I don't know what's going to happen, but I think I will have to be strong.

_**O O O O O**_

I'm blinking—_I'm_ blinking. It's mine! I'm in—I'm back! My body hurts really bad and I want to cry about it, but I learned not to cry, so I just lay with Mommy, knowing I won't be hurting her anymore.

I don't even bother to let my eyes remain open. I can smell her. I can smell Mommy and I snuggle with her. She'll be so glad to see me—the real me. I want to start talking—start telling—start saying ten things at once, but really, all I can do is remain within her arms. They are large and strong—everything I am not. I need them. Just for now, I need them because I'm going to have to tell her what happened. I'm going to have to tattle and I'm going to have to try to be brave because I know how much I hurt her—how much the _other_ one hurt her.

I hope she believes me. Sometimes she doesn't, but usually it's only because I really wasn't telling the truth. But now I was going to need her to believe. I didn't understand how she always knew, but when she thought I was lying, she only had to say my name in that voice—that voice that means, "Tell me." After that I always have to tell her. I can't help it.

If she said it now, I could show her I wasn't lying. I was almost sure she'd be able to see. My eyes are still closed as I feel her move slightly. She's nearly whispering. I don't really care about that. I just want her to be with me and not be scared of me. I'd like to tell her that she shouldn't be afraid of me. I'm so little. It's silly that she was afraid.

But then Mommy's body moves just a little bit. She moves just a little bit away from me and that scares me—a lot. I thought the scary stuff was over. I need it to be over. As I open my eyes, I see a large man with a knife. He's going to kill me with it. He doesn't want to. He's really scared—almost as scared as me—but another man stops him. Another man knows what happened. I don't know who he is and I don't know how he knows, but I can feel it on him. She's on him. She's not _in_ him like she was with me, but I can feel something around him that reminds me of her. She wants him and I think she might get him. I would tell him, but Mommy's hugging me and that's what I wanted all along. I bury myself into her hold, trying to tell her what I want her to know without talking. She'll know. She may not understand at first, but they'll tell her, and then she'll know—because she's a mommy—she's _my_ Mommy.

I just want to go home. Again I feel it, but then I remember I am home. That really scares me, but I'll go with Mommy. I'm going to be scared—maybe for the rest of my life—but I was going to be okay. The boogeyman really was in my closet, but I survived.

Now that I could cry, I didn't want to. I didn't think it'd be okay. It was too hard—everything was so hard—it was going to be really bad, the business in our house. I felt her when she felt them coming. She was laughing in me. I didn't like it at all. I didn't know you could laugh if it wasn't on the outside.

Mommy knows it's me. When she thinks we're safe, she lifts me up, like mommies do, and looks into my eyes. Her hands are a little rough at first, but I know that's only because she needs to know for sure. Then her fingers feel like play dough when she sees it's me. She holds me—holds me so tight I'm not sure if I'm supposed to talk or cry. I think I'm supposed to cry, and that's what I want to do. So I cry.

I have a lot of tears. I have tears for Freckles. I have tears for Grandpa. I'm going to sit here with Mommy and let all the tears fall—all the ones that I couldn't have while the _other_ one was there.

I'm just a little girl. I know I don't understand what happened. But they're maybe gonna hurt her; the boys that thought I _was_ her. They're gonna get her. They're gonna kill her. I don't think Mommy would like me thinking it, but I want them to. I want her killed.

I'm going to pray for something that I don't think Mommy would like at all. I'm going to pray that they find her and kill her. And I'm going to pray that she thinks of me—of us—as she goes. It's naughty of me, I know, but I don't understand what has happened to me. I only know it should never happen to anyoone because it was too horrible. So it might be mean, but I think maybe, in this new world, it's okay to be a little naughty. I think sometimes you may even _have_ to be naughty.

My prayer isn't what it's supposed to be, but I decided that's okay, _Please find her. Please find the naughty girl that killed my Freckles and especially my grandpa. I know it's not okay to be mean when I pray, but I don't like her. And I know if I don't like her, she shouldn't be here. She's too naughty._

I'm scared for another moment. I wish I could talk like them so I could tell them everything that happened, but I don't have enough words. I'm too little.

I just want to live like me. I just want to _be_ me. I think she's gone—so now I can be me.

**Author's Note:** Thank you SO much for reading. Please review! I answer them all and I _love_ to answer questions or see thoughts/suggestions. Thanks again for reading!


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